Shadows Came to Stay
by Choco
Summary: DISCONTINUED. AU, HarryxDraco. At Hogwarts, fifthyears assassinate purebloods to prove their loyalty to Dumbledore's Army. Disobeying is nigh unthinkable. At least, until Harry Potter is ordered to kill Draco Malfoy.
1. The Boy Who Lived Lives to Kill

**Disclaimers:** Harry Potter and related characters/situations belong to JKR, WB, Scholastic, and the like. The only profits I get are my own twisted amusement.If you don't like slash/yaoi, you'll probably want to press the back button now. If this chapter doesn't offend you, the next one will.  
  
**A/N:** Yet another AU story. There are a few things I need to explain here that might not be made clear in the story, so here I go:  
  
'Blood traitors' is the term now applied to purebloods who refuse to mingle their blood with non-purebloods. Anyone encouraging seperatism/discouraging the mingling of Muggle and magical blood is bad!  
  
'Halfblood,' 'mudblood,' etc., aren't disparaging terms. Basically, mudbloods rule the wizarding world. It's good to be one of them!  
  
I think that's it! I'd really appreciate any type of feedback, whether it be constructive criticism or just a note that lets me know what works, so don't hesitate to review! ^_^  
  
* * *  
  
The Great Hall rang with the shouts of curses.  
  
Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, was one of the few whispering instead of shouting. His eyes closed, the wand he gripped spraying the Gryffindor Table with lurid green sparks, he murmured the Killing Curse under his breath over and over. Across from him, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger were not speaking at all.  
  
"Would you _stop_ that? I don't want my book catching fire!" Hermione snapped suddenly, sliding _Hogwarts: A History_ away from the onslaught of the magical sparks. Ron, eating his dinner methodically, glanced at Harry and gave him a sympathetic, best-friend's smile.  
  
Harry stopped, opening his eyes just in time to catch Ron's smile and Hermione's irritated expression. He stopped whispering and set down his wand. "Sorry," he said, raising his voice to be heard over the cry of Unforgiveables. "I'm just kinda -- y'know--"  
  
"Afraid of forgetting the spell?" Hermione sighed. "Honestly, is it that hard? _Avada Kedavra_ -- we've practiced it thousands of times in Curses. You just need to _concentrate_, Harry. You did it perfectly when you tried it the other day."  
  
"That's easy for _you_ to say," Harry blurted, "_you_ two have already taken your O.W.L.s! I don't even know who I'm being assigned -- what if I say _avis_ instead, or what if I start thinking about Mum, or--"  
  
"You'll be fine, Harry," Ron reassured him between bites. "It's really not hard -- Hermione's right..._for once_. They gave me Zabini. I told you about how dark it was...I never had to see his face, remember?"  
  
This year, for the fifth-year's O.W.L.s, the students in the three houses had been split into groups. Each group was to be taken out of the castle to do the practical part of their exams on a different day. The process was spread out over a week. Hermione and Ron had been in the same group, had gone to their testing sites individually with an entourage of judges dogging their heels. They had already gotten their O.W.L.s over with. It had infuriated Harry more than he was willing to admit.  
  
"I remember," Harry admitted reluctantly. "But I dunno -- Mum sent me a letter earlier, and...never mind. I reckon I'll be okay."  
  
He put away his wand and pulled out a piece of folded parchment, already read at least ten times. He unfolded it on the table and shared it with his best friends for the first time. Lily Evans, in her neat, even hand, had calmly assured her son that he would do fine on his O.W.L.s, that she believed in him, that she loved him, that everything was going fine in Godric's Hollow.  
  
Harry treasured every one of her letters; she was the only parent he'd ever known. Members of Dumbledore's Army, for which he was training now, had eliminated his father -- a blood traitor -- after he divorced his mother, when he was only a baby. He'd had custody of Harry the day he died, and they'd mistaken him for a blood traitor as well. It was how he had gotten his scar.  
  
Hermione turned her eyes away quickly, knowing how Harry liked to keep these letters private. Harry wasn't stupid enough to think she hadn't read it all, but he liked the illusion. "She went through her O.W.L.s ages ago, but never like this," Hermione said. "Minister Dumbledore didn't even allow the army to kill blood traitors then. It was a different sort of test. Still--"  
  
"Your mum's got the right idea, Harry," Ron said warmly, nearly sprinkling the treasured letter with food debris. Harry hastily tucked it away. The redhead, oblivious, went on. "There's nothing to be afraid of. _Anyone_ can do it!"  
  
"Except poor Seamus." Hermione's voice was mournful and low. "He was taken to his test right after dinner last night. But he refused to kill the boy -- Longbottom, was it? He failed because of that."  
  
Before Harry could worry about whether or not he had the force of will to look at another wizard and condemn them to death, Headmistress Minerva McGonagall approached. "You'll be going first tonight, Potter," she said briskly, setting down his pass before him. The left sleeve of McGonagall's robes drooped badly, and with good reason: there was no arm inside it. In an assembly last week, she'd told her students about the terrible duel she'd had with a blood-traitor who'd escaped from Azkaban, how a curse from the pureblood had erased her arm utterly. The traitor, of course, had died for her misbehavior.  
  
"Er..." Harry looked up at the severe woman. "What's it going to be...like?"  
  
McGonagall looked down at the clipboard in her hand, a spell helping her shuffle through other passes. "Very routine -- I believe you went over it in Poisons," she murmured. "We'll tell you all about the blood traitor you're assigned to kill. You'll Apparate to your testing site, along with me and four other judges. Then, you'll assassinate him or her. We'll judge you on stealth, wandwork, diction -- things like that. You ought to know your score immediately after. If you have any other questions, see Miss Chang...she's one of our student judges this year."  
  
As McGonagall drifted away, Harry scanned the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw Tables. It didn't take him long at all to locate Cho Chang, smiling demurely and probably thinking of her boyfriend Cedric Diggory, an official member of Dumbledore's Army this year. He couldn't keep himself from blushing. Hermione coughed and hid herself behind her book.  
  
"And don't worry about missing," Ron said. "Minister Dumbledore modified the Killing Curse so it only kills purebloods -- er -- blood traitors." Ron was the member of a family of purebloods identified as 'benevolent,' and a growing number of purebloods were joining them. _Probably because they know that's the only way they'll become immune to the Killing Curse_, Harry thought. _Probably because they know Dumbledore's trainees use them as _target practice_ otherwise._  
  
"Enough of that," Harry said suddenly, putting his pass away. "Ron, what d'you think of the Cannons' chances this year?"  
  
* * *  
  
Young as she was, the girl was a Malfoy born; she didn't raise a single verbal complaint. In the pictures, she was slender, with soft blonde hair and blue eyes. The trouble was, they were related. Crabbe and Goyle were as wary as he was (though he'd be damned if he'd show it). Lucius Malfoy, predictably, remained as stoic as he would have been if he'd arranged his son with a pureblood who wasn't a close relation.  
  
In his father's bedroom now, Draco Malfoy stood very still as the elder dressed him -- a tradition that had been upheld in all times of stress. Draco's hands had developed the disconcerting tendency of shaking whenever he was affected by a particularly strong emotion; he knew he wouldn't be able to dress himself properly tonight, as he was presently in such a state. He'd be going north in a few hours, and the people he'd meet there wouldn't accept anything less than perfection in their daughter's suitor. He could feel the heat radiating from Lucius' hands as he buttoned his gray dress shirt.  
  
"Have you packed everything?"  
  
"Hours ago." Draco held his breath as his father's fingers traced his jawbone, gray eyes searching Lucius' face for any betrayal of what he was thinking. "Mother told me the girl..._cried_ when she heard she'd been arranged to me, Father."  
  
Lucius snorted, but daintily so. His hands left his son, grabbing a black tie from where it had been carelessly laid down on the bed. He coiled the fine material around Draco's neck. "She's a _girl_, Draco; she's fifteen, and she's afraid. What more could you expect from the sex? They're weak...your mother nearly died of fright when one of those filthy mudbloods came for her. And Bellatrix -- well--" He broke off, his pallid lips twitching up in something that may have been private amusement.  
  
_Oh yes, Bellatrix was a frail dove, just ask Minerva McGonagall._ Draco smiled back; the headmistress of Hogwarts had managed to kill his aunt, but she was one arm the poorer. Lucius must have forgotten that he, too, read the _Daily Prophet_ Percy brought by in the mornings. "Bellatrix will be missed, Father," he said quickly, eager to return the conversation to his own troubles, "but my future wife's still _alive_."  
  
He was instantly sorry. He could see his death rising in his father's eyes, but the threat disappeared as quickly as it had arisen. "_No_ pureblood should be forgotten just because they've fallen to those cravenly..._assassins_," Lucius informed him, his voice thick with obvious disgust. "As for Pansy, she'll be all right. She's only been arranged for a day -- her father will make her see reason. Unless that's not what you meant to ask at all..." The man's lips turned down in an unseemly sneer. "Are you afraid as well?"  
  
"I'm not a _girl_, Father," Draco said, emphasizing the word just as his dad had. He kept in mind that in the future, he should keep his comments to himself while his father's hands were around his neck. Presently, Lucius' hands were securing the tie in what felt like a complicated knot.  
  
"I saw what little you have to offer when you asked me to put on your boxers. Did you think I'd forgotten so soon?" Lucius' voice dripped with contempt.  
  
Draco shrugged, looking very noncommittal. He wanted to disappear when he felt his cheeks grow warm at his father's frankness. "No," he said after a moment.  
  
"Good." Lucius handed him his black blazer, which -- apparently -- he expected Draco to put on himself. After he moved away a little, Draco completed the challenge admirably. "The Parkinsons are good purebloods, Draco -- cowardly, fleeing Dumbledore's ragtag _army_ as they have...but good. And Pansy is a good girl, a beautiful, obedient girl. She's very enjoyable, you'll see. You'll have beautiful pureblooded children."  
  
Draco didn't tell his father about his worries or fears; nor did he tell him that he wished to be accompanied. He was a pureblood, after all, and he wouldn't be afraid. "I'll miss you, Father," he mumbled, as weak as he allowed himself to get.  
  
Lucius leaned forward and kissed the corner of Draco's mouth. "Be careful. I'll see you in two weeks," he murmured as he pulled away.  
  
* * *  
  
The wind whispered through the tress, and the soft, slow rustling of the shrubbery surrounding the Malfoy Manor grew abruptly loud and rapid following a succession of _crack_s as Harry Potter and his judges Apparated behind them. Immediately after they'd gotten their bearings, the members of the DA oozed into the cracks a few rosebushes provided and disappeared like shadows. Slightly less gracefully, Harry hid, too.  
  
The five judges and the one boy watched in predatory silence, waiting for the lights in the mansion to go out one by one. "The boy will be coming out in five minutes -- when the last light goes out," Headmistress McGonagall told Harry for the sixth time, rubbing the place where her left arm ended absently. "Potter, are you ready?"  
  
The dark-haired Gryffindor looked up at the sky. They were in the English countryside now, and he could see countless stars. He recalled distant constellations, snatching their names from his memories of Astronomy -- the one class Hogwarts students had whose purpose wasn't twisted to justify murder. The smell of some fall flower pleased his nose, the scent coiling sweetly around the nervousness that made him tremble inwardly. "Yes, miss," he lied.  
  
"Aim straight and speak true." Auror Alastor Moody, to his left, had a low, deep voice. Minister Dumbledore had employed him to help fifth-years during this most difficult of tasks. Harry supposed he was all right, but his ruin of a nose made it hard to look at him for long. "Nothing stings worse than missing on your first try."  
  
Harry nodded respectfully and curled his fingers around his wand, stashed in one of the pockets of his robes. Supposedly, the DA had secured the area before his arrival, and the boy wasn't to arrive for five more minutes yet, but it was best to be prepared. He resisted the urge to look at Cho Chang, who he knew was looking at him.  
  
McGonagall's reproach seemed to come a bit late. "_Moody_, we've warned you time and again against this. You know the rules -- you're _not_ supposed to give the students help or advice once they're at their testing site. Minister Dumbledore would never approve!"  
  
"D'you think he'll have this opportunity when he's out there like this during his N.E.W.T.s and has to stand a kill on his own?" Moody objected. "He ought to get all the help he can right now! Otherwise -- well, _you_ know what'll happen if you're not prepared, don't you, Minerva?"  
  
The headmistress' voice was loud with heat, growing steadily more vehement. "He's had _five years_--"  
  
"Quiet, both of you!" one of the more diminutive judges squeaked. In the twilight gloom that shrouded the mansion's lawn, Harry couldn't tell which judge it was. "Will you kill each other so the blood traitors don't have to? Look, the lights are starting to go out! They'll be watching the lawn more carefully now!"  
  
"I would go _that_ far, Filius. Thank you," McGonagall said contritely before lapsing into silence.  
  
Marveling at the fact that this Auror had dared to take a jab at his headmistress -- a woman who had distinguished herself most beautifully in her duel against the wicked blood traitor Bellatrix, a woman who had gained a terrible wound that still smarted in exchange for her notoriety -- Harry turned his eyes to the Malfoy Manor along with the other five. Together, they watched the first light go out.  
  
Another flickered out. And then another. As darkness claimed the manor, the scent of those flowers seemed far sweeter, and motivation, like some tingling sort of fuel, flushed away his nervousness. He'd be on his own soon, just as Moody had said. He'd be able to hold someone's life in his hands and decide whether to kill or not. He'd have control over something! That knowledge was intoxicating, dizzying.  
  
Someone's hands brushed against his. A fifteen year old boy whose attention was easily averted, Harry looked away...and looked over at the older student judge who'd so discreetly touched him. It was Cho. "Good luck, Harry," she whispered tenderly, then moved away.  
  
He was still blushing and being lovesick and not remembering how to breathe when the last light went out. Nearly immediately afterward, one of the double front doors of the manor creaked open. Harry snapped to sudden attention.  
  
A thin, short boy, perhaps around his age, stepped out and closed the door behind him. When he started walking arrogantly -- and stupidly -- across the green lawn, Harry knew him for who he was. Yes, here was the target: the boy had the same pale skin and colorless hair and dark clothes as the prim, unsmiling boy he had seen in the pictures. The boy who, outwardly, seemed so stiff but harmless. Yet he'd come to know him well since the time he'd been given his pass at dinner. The headmistress had secluded him and fed him facts about this boy, telling him of his deeds, the despicable things he'd done to condemn himself as a blood traitor. Those things had helped him learn to hate. Those things had helped him realize it was all right to kill.  
  
Harry gripped his wand, hidden in one of his pockets. "I'll be back soon," he said to his judges, slithering away from the DAs to hide behind foliage closer to the target.  
  
The boy made little attempt to camouflage himself -- as useless as that would have proved, given his startling appearance -- obviously not expecting to be attacked in front of his own house, which made this testing site so _perfect_. His hair gleamed moon-bright under the intensity of the stars and Harry followed that shining beacon, hiding first behind other rosebushes, then behind a young tree thick with green leaves. Peeking at him, predicting that he would cross a droopy willow tree beyond them both, Harry made that his next destination. When the boy looked down to retrieve something from the blazer he wore -- perhaps his wand? -- Harry raced for the tree and hid himself behind its slender trunk.  
  
Not one part of his body showed beyond the diameter of the trunk; he felt as slim as a blade. He could hear the blood roaring in his ears. He could hear his quick breathing. He could hear the way the boy would scream when he realized that curse of cold green death was coming towards _him_. Liquid motivation swirled in him like a wizard's volatile potion in its cauldron. He'd lied to McGonagall before, but he wasn't lying to himself now. He _was_ ready.  
  
"What are _you_ doing here?" The boy's voice was a sleepy drawl.  
  
Eyes wide, Harry whirled around -- to find himself face to face with the boy, even paler up close like this. He had the feeling that he'd have his arms crossed if there was a way he could do so without creasing the expensive blazer he wore. Harry was surprised to see his eyes were gray and not white...but in them was the sickening arrogance that marked every blood traitor -- and he thought he saw the fact that he knew...and that he knew that _Harry_ knew. He had to be eliminated quickly! The Gryffindor drew his wand, trying to be unobtrusive. He hoped he was making the right decision.  
  
"What--" A trembling smirk greased the boy's thin lips as Harry took a few steps forward and pressed the tip of his wand against his sternum, wondering if it hurt (if it did, no hint of it showed in the pureblood's mercurial eyes). His pale eyes flicked down to the weapon, nearly hidden between their bodies. "What are you going to do with that thing, _mudblood_?"  
  
_I'm going to kill you,_ Harry wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come. He'd imagined this moment many times: going up to some unsuspecting blood traitor, whispering some florid speech that explained why they were going to die, uttering the spell and feeling the triumph of victory as they fell cold and dead, but this was nothing like his fantasies. The boy was calmly composed in the face of death, not cowering and weeping like purebloods invariably did in his smudgy daydreams; it took a lot of the thrill out of it. And he couldn't remember the spell -- was it _avarda_ or _avanda_ or something else? Harry was feeling slightly sick.  
  
Before he could think any further, he heard the familiar _crack!_ that signaled someone's Apparition and his heart dropped; while _he_ wasted time thinking and daydreaming and not paying attention, the damned blood traitor had escaped! He'd lost his target! He was going to fail his O.W.L.! The force of the boy's attempt at Apparition had broken them apart, and...and..._he was gone!_ Then, he looked ahead; the boy was there, perhaps two yards away -- well, _most_ of him was. They both seemed to realize at the same time that his wand hand was missing.  
  
The blood traitor's gray eyes grew wide and frightened. "FUCK!" he shouted, very loudly, perhaps to alert whoever was in the house that he was about to be murdered. His eyes flicked to Harry and he bolted blindly, apparently not realizing he was heading right towards his assassin. Harry reached out as the pureblood passed him, snagging one of his arms and stopping him before he could go far.  
  
The boy's arm was so warm, and he was trembling. "Let me _go_," he growled, trying to pull free. "You nasty mudblood, I don't want you _touching_ me. Why don't you let me _fight_? It's just like Father said--"  
  
"You don't have a wand hand," Harry pointed out. His voice was a whisper. He was afraid of what would happen if his judges knew he was talking to this boy, this boy who was already supposed to be dead. He was afraid of what would happen if he continued this conversation. He tried to think of why he was speaking at all and couldn't.  
  
"I splinched myself, I know. I _told_ Father I was too young to Apparate, what did he expect?" The pureblood frowned. His startlingly gray eyes moved to Harry's wand. "I'm not so bad with my left hand. Maybe I'll take your wand and show you."  
  
"Maybe not." He hastily moved his wand out of reach. "Maybe I'll kill you now, instead of later."  
  
The boy's face twisted. "Now, later -- what does it matter? I'll be _dead_. You might as well get it over with. If you try to torture me, I won't scream, you know."  
  
He didn't answer. Shooting a meaningful glance at the rosebushes where his judges were hidden, tightening his grip on the boy's forearm, he dragged him quickly behind a clump of bushes, where he was certain they wouldn't be seen -- not by the boy's relations, and definitely not by the DA. "Time to go on a trip, I think," he murmured, pushing the blonde roughly to the ground.  
  
"_Hey_!" The pureblood shouted, outraged, as he was manhandled. "You can't _do_ this! Father _told_ me the Ministry passed a law against this! Just because I'm a pureblood doesn't mean I don't have _rights_, you know!"  
  
* * *  
  
"What in Merlin's _name_ does he think he's _doing_?" McGonagall wanted to know, her eyes unblinking as she watched Potter stray out of sight and out of earshot. "He's supposed to kill him!"  
  
"I'm sure Harry knows what he's doing," the student judge, Cho Chang, said demurely. She did everything demurely.  
  
"Then he _should_ know that he's supposed to use the Killing Curse on the blood traitor. Honestly, what kind of soldier will he be in two years if he can't discipline himself now? _I'll_ put a stop to this madness!"  
  
"I'd get back down, if I were you." Moody's voice was slow and quiet and superior to the point of sickness. "What was it you said earlier, Minerva? About not interfering with the students' O.W.L.s? I think that applies now, don't you? Like Chang said, he knows what he's doing. And if he doesn't -- well, let him make his own mistakes."  
  
The other judges agreed. Scribbled on their score sheets.  
  
* * *  
  
The boy, sitting on the ground, still somehow managed to look at Harry as though he, a boy training to become a part of Dumbledore's Army, was beneath him. It infuriated him, but he was confident that he could kill him now. The words were _avada kedavra_, just as Hermione and a thousand other Hogwarts students had recited earlier; he wondered how he had ever forgotten them. He could kill him in private now, and he was ready.  
  
"It's not personal," Harry said, explaining carefully with his gleaming wooden wand. That was nowhere close to the eloquent sentences in his head, but it sufficed, and it was all he wanted to offer the blood traitor now. "I have to do it for my O.W.L.s."  
  
"Then go ahead and _do_ it, for your precious _O.W.L.s_." The boy sighed and rolled his eyes. "I'm not afraid -- not yet -- but I _will_ be if you keep pussyfooting like this."  
  
"I'm _not_ pussyfooting," Harry retorted hotly, without the slightest inkling of what the word meant, without the slightest inkling of why he had responded at all. "D'you really to die?" It couldn't be so. He'd never met a person who wasn't afraid of dying by the hand of someone a part of Dumbledore's Army (or _nearly_ a part of it, in his case), but this boy sounded like he meant it.  
  
"Of course, you dimwit! I already told you why!" the boy sneered. "Is the rest of Dumbledore's Army as deaf and stupid as you?"  
  
Harry extended his wand. The glossy wood gleamed under the light of the glittering, infected stars. The boy watched the switch with big moon eyes.  
  
"You want it? Here," Harry hissed. "You think it makes me feel good to have to kill someone I don't even know? Okay, why don't _you_ try it, see how _you_ like it."  
  
When the pureblood made a wild grab for it, as Harry fully expected he would, he stepped quickly out of reach. The wand was rock-steady, pointed at him, even as he fell flat on his face. The blood traitor forced himself to his knees with the aid of his one hand, his pretty clothes all wrinkled and smudged with grass. "A rotten trick!" he growled.  
  
"Not nearly as rotten a trick as the one you played on that girl," Harry shot back, remembering what McGonagall had shown him in his seclusion after dinner. "Why did you kill her?"  
  
"What are you _talking_ about? I've never killed anyone. I can't even pronounce the Killing Curse. I'm not like _you_, killing some pureblood just to get my rocks off and receive a dozen O.W.L.s."  
  
Doubt wormed its way into Harry's belly. He ignored it. "Don't play stupid with me, blood traitor. I've _seen_ what you did to that girl in Norway, they _showed_ me. Don't remember slaughtering the daughter of the respectable mudblood family who fled your wand? The name _Parkinson_ doesn't ring a bell?"  
  
The pureblood's upper lip curled. "You think you're really witty, don't you? _Parkinson_'s the surname of the girl I'm arranged to -- and she's a _pureblood_, just like me. _I_ heard she fled to Merlin knows where to escape the Muggle lover's hired wands. I don't even knows where she is. Really. You've seen me Apparate, do you really think I'm capable of something like what you're _suggesting_?"  
  
"They have _records_, blood traitor. They said--"  
  
"My _father_ arranged me with her! _He_ knows I'd never run off with a mudblood, much less _lower_ myself to kill one! That one was actually funny, do you have any other stories you want to spin?"  
  
"It's not a _spin_. It happened." _It happened because they wouldn't lie to me. And even if they did, you're going to be dead soon anyway._ Wasn't he? He'd heard they'd killed Longbottom when Finnigan refused. And--  
  
The blood traitor must have picked up on his doubt. His gray eyes narrowed and he actually smiled, though he still looked contemptuous. "How would you even know? You were never there. They could tell you anything to get you in the mood to kill people like me -- _anything_, and you'd believe it because you're so eager to join their little army, aren't you?"  
  
"I'm _not_," Harry said, tiring of this nonsense. "_Avarda_ -- oh, dammit, wait!"  
  
"If you really wanted to kill me, you'd have said the spell perfectly," the boy commented, pressing his advantage. He seemed to be feeling a lot more confident, suddenly, like the addicted gambler who believed he could bet it all on one last game and win. "I think you knew it was a lie -- whatever it was they showed you -- all along. You knew it was a lie and your conscience wouldn't let you kill me knowing that, even though I am a blood traitor. How many other purebloods have died because of lies, I wonder? Did they tell you _that_?"  
  
The boy became agitated when Harry only stared and did not speak. "If you don't want to answer the bloody question, then get it over with! Kill me, you filthy mudblood, what're you waiting for?"  
  
"This is kind of awkward," Harry said to the grass.  
  
"Oh, so it's only awkward now!"  
  
He should never have allowed him to speak. In the face of this, he couldn't hold on to his motivation, not with the ugly possibility that everything behind it might be a lie. That unclean motivation had dissolved in proportion to the time he spent sniping with this pureblood.  
  
Harry lowered his eyes and his wand. "Go," he muttered.  
  
The boy looked up at him, his eyes dark with surprise and suspicion and cheating death.  
  
"Go _on_," Harry said; his wand arm felt like it was filled with lead, and he couldn't raise it. "Before I return to my wits. _Go_."  
  
He went. 


	2. To Norway For Love

**Disclaimers:** Don't own, just write. Eventual H/D boy touching. Kthx.  
  
**Thank Yous:** A.B., AmunetIfe, Gackt koibito, Jedi Suzuran, Kawai_Fox, mashpotatobunny, SlytherinSxGod. Have some cookies!  
  
AmunetIfe: Basically, only the people in power kill purebloods whenever possible.  
  
mashpotatobunny: Yeah, my beta tried to tell me the Harry & Cho part was superfluous, but the Harry/Cho shipper in me refused to listen. I wanted to hint at a certain something to come in the story, but that should've been done more subtly.  
  
SlytherinSxGod: I don't know about the near future (even though it's definitely coming). ) I'm kind of tired of those H/D fics where they're calling each other by their first names by the third chapter and doing teh sex0r by the seventh. What ever happened to slow, realistic romance?  
  
**A/N:** Well, since you're reading this, this fic obviously isn't a one-shot! ;) You didn't think I'd end it like that, did you? I'm mean and lazy, but I'm not EVIL.  
  
I'll try to update at least once a week, but that really depends on my beta (she actually has a life, grr!) and the amount of homework my AP teachers give me -- the bastards! I was thinking of sending out an e-mail when I update, if you want it then leave your e-mail addy in your review or send me a letter at iissomeness@aol.com (feel free to poke fun at aol; I do ;).  
  
I also want to use this space to give props to my beta, Tali. She helped me out a lot with the last chapter. Yes, Tali's the greatest! :)  
  
But enough babbling. You should be reading the fic now. Yeah.  
  
* * *  
  
Professor Severus Snape was the son of two blood traitors, and he laughed like a hissing snake. "My, but this has made me thirsty. More tea, Mr. Potter?"  
  
Harry hadn't been in the Headmistress' office before. He'd never expected to set foot in it during his training. Even now, after his judges had escorted him up here, he remained untouched by the tiny electric thrill that he would have otherwise felt at accessing a forbidden room; he was too sickened, too nervous, to feel much of anything. His full cup of tea, on his lap, was stone cold. "I'm not thirsty, sir," he mumbled, flattening his bangs.  
  
Professor Snape's thin, cruel lips pulled down in a disdainful sneer. "Already had a drink from his skull, then?"  
  
"_Severus_, that was completely uncalled for," McGonagall snapped from behind her wide mahogany desk. She looked calm and unaffected as she stroked the back of her familiar, a sleek tabby cat. Harry wondered if she cared about what was on her tea table at all.  
  
"What, Minerva? _What_?" Snape shot back. He gestured to the mess on the tea table as he said, "You expect me to keep quiet about something like...this?"  
  
Harry had spared the blood traitor when he was still able to distinguish one star from another. By the time clouds obscured most of those stars in hazy whiteness, he'd brought back the pureblood's severed head, transfixed with terror and dripping gore, to where his judges were hidden. At the time, he congratulated himself on his superior attempt at Transfiguration -- the 'head' was nearly a perfect match to the real thing. But one glance at the identical expressions of horror on his judges' faces was enough to make his heart drop and make him realize he'd made the wrong decision. That 'head' lay on the tea table now, between Harry and Snape, making a mockery of Dumbledore's mercy.  
  
None of the judges wanted to be here; from the expressions on their faces, Harry could tell their minds were already made up. They stood in a rough semicircle behind McGonagall's chair, averting their eyes, refusing to look at him and Snape and the 'head' like the headmistress dared. "Where's Rubeus?" she asked, ignoring Snape's question.  
  
Snape's sneer grew more pronounced at that name. "Off with the last student," he announced, "as _I_ would be, if Mr. Potter had the slightest idea of what he was supposed to do."  
  
"Bones was back an hour ago," McGonagall objected. "They gave her an O. He should be here!"  
  
"There's no need to wait for Hagrid." Professor Flitwick, the Curses teacher, had to shout to be heard even when no one was speaking. "As good as Potter's Severing Charm is, he didn't follow directions. I gave him an A."  
  
"Exactly. Keep it to yourself, Snape!" Moody growled. "He killed the blood traitor, didn't he? There's one less in the world, isn't there? Isn't that the whole point? He deserves that A."  
  
"The _point_, Alastor, is to demonstrate the ability to follow directions," the Poisons Master explained coolly. "If some slip of a boy doesn't understand the importance of obedience to Dumbledore's Army now, what makes you think he'll understand it two years from now? It's a sign he can't be trusted."  
  
"So what, exactly, proved your obedience to the army? Was it a certain assassination?" Moody's eyebrows wiggled suggestively.  
  
"_Enough_!" McGonagall snapped as Snape turned an unlovely maroon color. There seemed an odd haste in the way she had said the word, but Harry felt so disconnected from the moment that he didn't register it -- no more than he registered the fact that his judges were discussing him. _Does lying do this to you?_ It might explain why the headmistress was so curiously emotionless.  
  
She opened her mouth to say something more, but the door to the office opened so loudly that even Snape gave a start, and McGongagall's familiar jumped off its perch on the desk, frightened. The pictures lining the room's walls trembled in their frames as Professor Rubeus Hagrid, the Deputy Headmaster, squeezed himself through the door and stamped in. Despite his fierce black eyes and wild black beard, he was deceptively soft, and Harry looked in his direction hopefully as he entered. Surely he would save him from Snape's protests!  
  
"Harry," Hagrid said warmly, turning his attention quickly to McGonagall as she cleared her throat. "What's the trouble, Headmistress?"  
  
"Potter brought back something very interesting from his O.W.L.s," she explained tersely, gesturing vaguely at the decapitated head. The glimmering light in Hagrid's dark eyes dimmed as he glanced at it, and Harry suddenly felt very ashamed at his behavior. He couldn't pretend to be ashamed when McGonagall looked like that -- after all, he didn't know her very well. But Hagrid was his friend, and a frequent visitor to the Potter home, and that expression of disappointment hurt. _It'll be even worse when they find out I Transfigured it_, he knew.  
  
"You did that, Harry?" the half-giant said hoarsely. Harry squirmed uncomfortably before he nodded assent.  
  
"Don't make me give you a handkerchief, Rubeus," Moody growled. "He killed the blood traitor. It takes a lot of bravery to do something like that."  
  
"Bravery the students don't need to show until their N.E.W.T.s," Flitwick pointed out.  
  
"Quiet!" McGonagall said warningly. "Rubeus, we wanted to know what you thought. Most of us gave him an A, but Severus seems to think he should fail."  
  
Hagrid was looking at Moody as he said, "H...he killed the blood traitor. I reckon he should get an A."  
  
"Severus, you appear to be quite alone in this," McGonagall pointed out. "I think Rubeus' opinion is enough. What you did was deplorable, Potter. I'm taking one hundred points from Gryffindor and giving you a week's detention, but--"  
  
"Do any of you know where the body is? Did you see it? Did you take pictures?" Snape was on to something; he dashed Harry's hopes of an easy escape. He was looking at Moody, too, his black eyes narrowed, his long fingers steepled.  
  
"We didn't think it was necessary," McGonagall said after a pause. "We thought the head was enough proof. Severus, what are you driving at?"  
  
"I'm not driving at anything, Minerva, I think I'm being quite clear," Snape said coolly. " "_Tell us where the body is, Potter!_"  
  
It wasn't fair! He wasn't skilled enough to lie! Harry nearly spilled the cup of tea on his lap, but he set it beside him on the ground before any damage could be done. "I reckon it's still on the lawn of the Malfoy Manor," he stammered.  
  
"That's what you _reckon_, is it? Well, I suppose you wouldn't mind us going to search for it, would you?" Snape withdrew his wand, as if to Apparate.  
  
"NO!" Harry said quickly, his eyes wide.  
  
"What's wrong, Potter? You killed the pureblood, didn't you? Didn't _Transfigure_ anything to get out of your O.W.L.s, did you? You can prove everything, can't you?"  
  
"I -- I don't--" Harry wasn't sure what to say. Every answer he thought of would only lead him into one of Snape's carefully baited traps.  
  
"Well, if you can't prove anything, and you don't want us to see the body, you've left me no choice. _Finite incantatem!_" Snape snapped, canceling Harry's Transfiguration spell. He looked positively triumphant as he held up a fistful of the leaves the Gryffindor had Transfigured into the pureblood's 'head.' "Care to explain this away, Potter?"  
  
Harry's jaw worked, a hazy gray panic overtaking his actions and thoughts. "I--" he looked around desperately for anything that might give him inspiration to lie. "I--"  
  
McGonagall was the first of the judges to recover. "You cheated on something as important as the O.W.L.s? You let a pureblood go? Why? What was going through your head, Potter?"  
  
If he thought Hagrid had been disappointed before, it was nothing compared to how he looked now: positively crushed. Despair and self-pity washed over Harry, even as he took responsibility for his actions. "He told me you lied -- that he hadn't killed anyone at all. I felt guilty. I believed him. I had to let him go, miss."  
  
"I wondered when we'd see this whiter-than-white Potter," Snape said smugly, a satisfied smile enhancing his ugly features.  
  
McGonagall gave Severus a long look until his smile faltered just a little. She turned her attention quickly back to Harry, who was looking intently at the floor. "Look at me, Potter. How could you believe that? He was about to die. What did you think he was going to say, that he had killed her? Of _course_ he wanted you to believe he was innocent."  
  
Harry chewed the inside of his cheek, unwilling to admit that he had been a git.  
  
"You do realize, Potter, that your tuition is paid by athletic scholarship? That you've jeopardized that scholarship by your actions?"  
  
"Yes, miss."  
  
"It's as I said at the beginning, Minerva," Snape said. "The boy obviously can't be trusted. Expulsion is the only answer."  
  
"Loath as I am to agree with Snape, that does seem the responsible thing to do." It didn't sound as though Moody believed what he was saying. His mad eye rolled with electric blue anger.  
  
When Harry, wondering what his mother would say and hating himself, didn't raise any objections, the headmistress sighed. "Well--"  
  
Cho looked up, her face contorted in thought; she must have been thinking for some time. "Headmistress," she ventured carefully, "Harry performed exceptionally well on the written portion of his O.W.L.s. He got several O's and E's. There are several others in the same situation -- mostly Hufflepuffs, but--"  
  
"Minister Dumbledore has no use for assassins who can't kill," Snape interrupted silkily.  
  
"Quiet, Severus!" McGonagall barked. "Go on, Chang."  
  
"Perhaps they were unsure, like Harry, or maybe they froze -- sometimes _I_ have test anxiety. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is, maybe they would benefit if they saw someone else perform an assassination before they tried again."  
  
"But why should we let them try again?" Flitwick wondered. "They've had five years to master the technique, haven't they? And who would be willing to kill another pureblood and take time out of their busy schedule for a handful of students?"  
  
"Not everyone learns at the same speed! And Professor Snape, if they meant to betray us, they've had five years to do so!" Cho countered the Poisons Master before he even opened his mouth, her hands on her hips, her brows knit. "Who'd be willing to help out a 'handful of students'? I would! There's no reason to let them go if they know what they're supposed to do! They could go on to become productive members of society, like the Poisons Master!"  
  
Harry looked up at Cho, his eyes wide. Could this be happening? Was she, a pretty and successful sixth year, really arguing to help him, some lowly fifth year, pass? It seemed inexplicable -- but it made hope dance in his belly, and he decided he quite liked that feeling. He didn't raise any objections.  
  
McGonagall made a mark on a piece of parchment. "Tomorrow's the make-up day," she said. "We've dropped one Ravenclaw from the roll, and there's no one to kill who they were assigned. You could demonstrate how to do it on him, and they could re-test some time next week. You're doing a selfless thing, Chang."  
  
Cho flushed with pleasure. "They had the best of intentions," she maintained, then lapsed into silence. Harry was silent, too, though he meant to thank his headmistress for this opportunity. Shock wouldn't allow him to speak. He was being given a second chance!  
  
Snape, who must have seen his chance to expel Harry slipping away, argued vainly, "They're a security threat, Minerva! You can't, on good conscience, allow Chang to teach them this!"  
  
"You had your chance, Severus, and you lost it. Rubeus, escort Potter back to his common room."  
  
* * *  
  
When the wizard was told he had two weeks to live, he laughed aloud. "This has to be a mistake," he told the mudblooded Healer, absently rubbing the translucent skin of one of his wrists. "I was admitted to get rid of boils -- my granddaughter, she doesn't know how to use her wand yet, silly girl--"  
  
"I remember, Mister..." The Healer was only a second-year resident, and didn't use magical assistance to shuffle through his many charts. "Mr. _Riddle_. Anyhow, I was there when they brought you up to Spell Damage. I remember how you looked. It's not that at all -- the restorative draught is working beautifully. You'll heal fully."  
  
"What is it, then?"  
  
"Oh, the DA is going to use you to test some of their N.E.W.T.s-level students," the mudblood said cheerfully. When he smiled, as he did now, his pockmarked face seemed less hideous. "It shouldn't be so bad -- they'll just capture you, interrogate you, then kill you. You won't suffer overmuch -- unless they fancy the idea of torturing you."  
  
Mr. Riddle could have choked on his fury. This entire ordeal -- that started with his daughter's idiot of a child thinking it a good idea to practice a spell she'd just learned on him, messing it up horribly, and ended with him in St. Mungo's, listening to some lowly resident tell him benignly that he was going to die -- was thoroughly humiliating, but this final announcement exceeded his patience. He was _Tom Marvolo Riddle_ after all, not a man to be threatened by pimply Healers with lispy voices.  
  
The sole good that had come of this was his escape from his parasite of a daughter, who constantly tried to sway him to the side of 'good.' She disliked his stance on wizard-muggle relations and deplored his underground activities with purebloods, a fact he'd kept in mind as he packed for his stay here. In his suitcase had gone the jimson weeds, the Sneakoscopes, the All-Seeing Eyes, all the incriminating evidence she knew he had and would likely hand over to the army as soon as he was gone. The more time he spent thinking in this lonely room on the fourth floor of St. Mungo's, the more he suspected it was her, not his granddaughter, who'd plotted to debilitate him.  
  
There was another thing in his suitcase that she'd never know about. He'd stored the project of a long complicated month in a vial and thrown it in with his other things on a whim -- perhaps there was something in the wind that made him do it. It was harmless in its present form and he'd questioned that decision before, but now it looked as if it might come in handy.  
  
"Mr. Riddle?" the Healer asked politely.  
  
Tom looked up from his introspection.  
  
"There you are," he said cheerfully. "I thought I'd lost you. Anyway--"  
  
"Why are they going to assassinate me? Have they forgotten I'm a halfblood?" He could barely keep the disdain out of his voice as he said that disgusting word.  
  
"You know, that's the other thing." He was frowning as he looked down at the chart. "Some sergeant in the DA -- Umbridge, I believe they said her name was -- led a raid on your mansion earlier today. They found a letter from a pureblood to you and what they _think_ is a manticore. It's enough to link you to the blood traitors. The Minister's already signed the order for your execution. Sorry."  
  
_Alise hid them from me_, Tom knew at once, his blood burning with the fiery injustice of it all. If he got out of this, his daughter would be the first to go. _Damn Alise! Damn her damn her damn her!_ "You didn't answer my question! The Killing Curse doesn't kill us!"  
  
"Ordinarily, you're right." The Healer set aside his clipboard and withdrew his wand. "Bare your left forearm and hold it out, please. I need to mark you."  
  
_Does he really expect me to comply? Maybe he's as big a fool as he looks._ "And why would I want to do that?" Tom asked through clenched teeth. "I like living just fine, thank you."  
  
"There are two members of the DA outside, if you'd like to discuss it with them," the mudblood said politely. Tom's eyes slid away from the Healer and his wand to look through his door, just slightly ajar. He was alarmed to see two shapes outfitted in the priestly white robes of Dumbledore's Army lurking outside the threshold. Reluctantly, his eyes straying to his suitcase, he held out his left forearm.  
  
"Isn't it nice to be obedient? _Morsmordre_!" An annoying, vaguely disturbing pain drilled itself into Tom's forearm. He dared to look at the spell playing itself out. A vivid green thread of magic was issuing from the wand, coiling around the white flesh of his left arm, irritating the skin, carving a drawing into it. He wasn't sure _what_ it was. When its work was done, it retreated back into the wood.  
  
The Healer tucked away his wand. "It'll grow darker as your time grows nearer," he explained. "Don't look so afraid -- it won't hurt as it colors. All right?"  
  
Tom couldn't take his eyes off of his arm. The mindless green thread had left behind an unbroken line of raised irritated flesh, definitely forming a shape that could have been a skull, though it was too soon to say for sure. And there was another shape curving within the larger one, shifting and moving-- "All right," Tom affirmed, his voice hard with hate.  
  
"Your assassins want to meet you," the Healer announced, turning away from him to retrieve his clipboard. "They're here on a day pass from Hogwarts. It might be beneficial to them -- and to you -- if you all meet together. You don't really mind meeting them, do you?"  
  
_What harm could it do?_ Tom reasoned. Most likely he'd be able to turn the situation to his advantage. Perhaps he'd even be able to assassinate the assassins! He moved his head in the briefest of nods. Relieved, the Healer shot a significant glance at the door. Obviously waiting for this sign, the two nondescript members of Dumbledore's Army pushed open the door and ushered in two identical red-haired Hogwarts students, both smiling smugly. Their eyes went to him immediately as the door closed. Tom looked at them as well, searching for some excuse to make, some weakness to exploit.  
  
Before he could speak, they pulled out of bed and, stumbling, to his feet. Cold air pressed against the backs of his thighs and he was reminded that the hospital gown he wore didn't tie properly in the back. "Hullo, bloke!" one of them said warmly, pumping his left hand enthusiastically. The other boomed some equally intimate greeting and patted him on the back, hard. Tom was too bewildered to retaliate.  
  
Once these bizarre greetings had been exchanged several times, the boys sat him firmly down on the edge of his bed and plopped down on either side of him, their arms slung affectionately about his shoulders. They were much too close for comfort. "I'm Fred, he's George. Nice private room you've got here. D'you like toffee?" Fred shoved a brightly colored wrapper underneath his nose.  
  
Disgusted, Tom pushed his hand away. "Another time," he begged off.  
  
"Yeah, maybe you'll be more in the mood for toffee in two weeks," said George. A little notepad, opened to a clean page, rested on his lap, and there was a quill in one of his freckled hands. "So, how d'you feel?"  
  
"Fine, actually."  
  
"No, no! How d'you feel about dying?" Fred asked impatiently.  
  
This exchange was making him dizzy. He needed to concentrate on what was in his suitcase, how he was going to get to it. "I've only known I'm going to die for ten minutes," he said.  
  
"No reaction? You just don't care? No dizzy spells, runny stools?" George was writing furiously on his little notepad.  
  
When Tom shook his head, Fred sighed. "This is difficult," he said. "We're trying to gauge the reactions of blood traitors when they're told they're going to die. We were thinking of releasing a candy that simulates the effects."  
  
"We're opening a joke shop, you know," said George.  
  
"No, I didn't know."  
  
"Well, I guess you can tell us how you feel when we come to kill you. By the way, d'you have any final requests to make? You know, a favor for a favor?" Fred looked at him beadily.  
  
_Thank you, boy, for being such a complete and utter fool._ "Actually, there is one thing," Tom said slowly. "It's in my suitcase. I brought it with me since it gives me comfort...but I suppose I've no more use for it, since I'm going to die. I want my daughter to have it -- if someone else got their hands on it, I think it'd break her heart." _And what a blessing that would be._  
  
"We don't see a problem with that," the boys said as one. Tom got up, smoothing the back side of his gown anxiously. Surveying the situation, he saw the Healer sitting at the room's table, looking through his charts and muttering to himself. Fred and George were staring at him intently. The members of the DA, outside the door, probably weren't listening as intently as they should be. There'd never be a better time.  
  
He crossed the room and stooped before his suitcase, making sure to keep his back to them, effectively shielding the suitcase's contents from prying eyes. He snapped it open carefully; atop all his other contraband was his glossy wand, all he needed for now. He gripped it with his wand hand and closed the suitcase. "Here it is, boys," he said with false regret, turning to confront them.  
  
When they saw him wielding a wand, their eyes grew wide with stupid surprise. "_Silencio_!" Tom whispered, stealing away the voices of all three, and any attempt they might have made at saying words of power to subdue him. Nevertheless, the students and the idiotic Healer went for their wands, but in their fumbling nervousness, Tom was able to take care of them easily. Three repetitions of "_Stupefy_!" did for them.  
  
Looking at their unconscious bodies, Tom thought, _The vial, time for the vial_. He set aside his wand and opened his suitcase again, moving aside magical knives, poisonous weeds, and those damned Sneakoscopes. Near the bottom, he snatched up the vial of brownish Polyjuice Potion and looked regretfully at his others toys. If he was going to do this, he'd have to leave these things behind, but that was all right. He had two weeks to live. No time for toys, now.  
  
Shedding his hospital gown, Tom went for the nearest boy, slumped against his bed. He unstopped the vial and plucked a few strands of red hair from his head, dropping them into the potion. He drank it immediately, ignoring the taste and the color change.  
  
The changes, the beautiful changes, hit him immediately. He felt his limbs elongating, his vision sharpening, the horrid mark of his death disappearing beneath splotchy freckles. He knew without looking that his hair was turning red, that the color of his eyes was changing, that they wouldn't know the difference between him and this Hogwarts student. He knew that there was no turning back.  
  
When the changes were complete, Tom Marvolo Riddle was able to smile the joyous uncomplicated smile of a Weasley.  
  
* * *  
  
Late in the tenth century, a Viking king had come to come to this hospitable land that clung to Norway's coast and carved the city that would later be known as Trondheim from it, at the mouth of the Nidelva River. As far as Draco Malfoy was concerned, he should have left it as he found it! After all, it had only taken him ten minutes to decide Norway was Europe's coldest country (even though it wasn't) and that he hated it utterly. He was even facing the possibility of having to _dirty his hand_ to get around this wretched city.  
  
Draco looked up at the somber, gray sky for a moment before, with the most extreme hesitance, he allowed Crabbe to help him from the back-seat of the car. The Norwegian who awaited them on the street wore dusty clothes and had obviously never heard of magic (or a dentist), as the set of wooden dentures in his mouth attested. When Draco stood, he looked at Crabbe for a long while before his meaty companion remembered to throw the driver who'd taken them this far a few notes.  
  
"Do you 'remember' where the Parkinson's live now?" Draco asked as Crabbe dawdled, clumsily unfolding his umbrella when he realized it was drizzling. He looked at his friend unkindly from beneath it, safe and crabby and dry.  
  
"I told the man, Draco, but--"  
  
"Then get out of my sight. Go! I'll be fine on my own."  
  
Crabbe hesitated, but the expression on the young Malfoy's face must have frightened him, because he climbed back into the back-seat of the car rather quickly. Draco didn't turn around to acknowledge the presence of the Scandinavian until the car disappeared up one 'gate' or another, leaving a hazy miasma of exhaust in its wake. He was frowning, but he switched from English to Norse without the slightest pause. "The Parkinson's sent you, didn't they? Where do they live?"  
  
"Old Town Bridge. It's a ways," Wooden Dentures responded. Draco didn't think his Norwegian was all that bad, but he could barely understand the words of a native speaker, let alone one who used a dialect like this -- it was too drawling for his ears, and what he said made little sense to him. The man's wooden teeth clacked together noisily.  
  
"Let's go, then." Draco started off, but he turned around rather quickly when he realized he wasn't being led or even followed. "Come on!" he snapped, and Wooden Dentures grudgingly took the lead. Draco hunched his shoulders, a dissatisfied frown hardening his features.  
  
His pace wasn't fast enough for Draco. Didn't the poor foreign fool realize he didn't want to be seen like this and the faster he was off the streets, the better? Really, what wizard in their right mind would want to be seen like this: walking, storklike, along a sidewalk in a country where the people's smiles were yellow, dressed like some filthy Muggle, clutching an umbrella with their one hand, jumping at shadows? Dumbledore's Army would have embraced him with open arms, he knew, but the thought of the DA brought back the memory of -- ah! Draco smothered the thought quickly, staring at the back of the Norwegian's spotted bald head.  
  
The first thing he -- frightened, shaken, humiliated -- had done once that pansy of a mudblood let him go was run to Crabbe's. He wasn't the smartest boy, it was true, and he wasn't the craftiest, but he knew how to get someone out of the country and keep his mouth shut. When Draco had shown him his stump and explained his dilemma, Crabbe had used his parents' resources to get him into Norway and set him up with a contact that could lead him to the Parkinson's. It didn't matter for now that the contact was a Muggle, or that he'd used Muggle transportation to get to Trondheim, or that he was traveling through the Muggle part of town. He could wonder how he ever could have sunk so low later. Now wasn't the time for questioning himself.   
But why didn't he go back inside the manor?  
  
He didn't know.  
  
And why didn't he report his splinching to the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad?  
  
He didn't know that, either.  
  
Was it because his need for hate and pride and angst was stronger than any desire and humility and helplessness he could conjure?  
  
Possibly.  
  
The only thing he knew was that he had to make it to the Parkinson's. Everything would be all right as long as he could cement the arrangement. As it was, he wouldn't be able to show his face at the Malfoy Manor if he tried to go back now -- but his father would be placated if he learned that Pansy Parkinson had warmed to his son, even despite his atrocious behavior.  
  
"Of all the miserable, out of the way places they could have chosen to hide, they come here. What was wrong with Madagascar? Not rainy enough this season?" he growled to the Norwegian as they made a sharp turn onto Erling Skakkers Gate, his mouth working independently of his brain.  
  
"Madagascar?" the Norwegian repeated, apparently not one of the city's smarter specimens.  
  
"Never mind. Just get us to the Parkinson's in one piece, all right? Oh, _dammit_!" Without looking where he was going, Draco had managed to submerge one of his expensive boots in a deep muddy puddle, obvious to everyone else on the sidewalk but him. When he pulled it free, he knew without looking that it had been ruined; the cold wetness that refused to leave his foot told him so. Grinding his teeth, he looked up...and saw his guide far ahead! Pushing his way past a knot of girls holding books and probably coming back from a day at their university, he ran to catch up.  
  
"The Wharves," the Norwegian said once Draco was back within earshot, pointing ahead. Draco couldn't see what he was talking about, but he smelled the fish -- an odor that made his stomach heave. He reminded himself that he was a wizard, a pureblooded one at that; he reminded himself that where there were fish there was a river, and where there was a river there was a bridge, and then he was all right again.  
  
They made one more turn before what Draco assumed was the River Nidelva rose before them, its waters choppy and gray and somber even so close to summer -- but that was probably due to that day's weather. The Old Town Bridge stretched across it towards a residential area, teeming with cars, but Draco saw no sidewalk anywhere. He was about to point this out to his guide when the man grabbed one of his arms and led him quickly off to a place where the land dropped sharply off onto the bank of the river. Below them, the Nidelva gurgled hungrily.  
  
"Are you insane?" Draco growled, trying to pull free. "D'you want us to drown--ah!" He nearly slipped in his haste to get away from the man, and the man had to wrap his arms around his waist to save himself, and then he struggled no more.  
  
Once at the rocky bottom, the man let go of Draco and blithely picked his way across the rocks toward a place where the bridge above threw everything into twilight gloom. Draco followed only when he saw no other solution. They stopped near the middle of where the bridge was overhead, looking across the swiftly moving water at the opposite bank. He prepared to make some snide remark when the man made the first step out towards the water.  
  
"We have to swim? I can't swim!" Draco yelled furiously, but he stopped and looked on in wonder as a diamond-hard path appeared on the water's surface where the Norwegian laid his foot. He wasn't a Muggle? The Malfoy followed after him hastily.  
  
At the opposite end, Draco folded his umbrella and looked up at what was, by all appearances, a flat stone wall that was perfectly vertical. The man stepped forward and knocked on it three times. "Squiggle strife," he mumbled in very rough English before stepping back. In an instant, the stone seemed to fade in places and Draco could discern windows and a door, all the features of a regular home. Then the Norwegian knocked heavily on the door. Draco smoothed his blazer, even though it was beyond help, and waited anxiously. The Norwegian slipped covertly away.  
  
A man opened the door. "Draco?" he asked. When the blond nodded, he stepped away from the door to allow him entrance. "We've been waiting for you," he said, not so much as looking at the Norwegian when he followed them in. "Come on, we want to talk to you in the drawing room before we introduce you to Pansy.  
  
Inside, the house hewn from stone was a perfect example of English opulence, tastefully and elegantly furnished in rich greens and icy silvers. Mr. Parkinson wasted no time in leading him directly to the drawing room.  
  
In short order, he was introduced to Pansy's parents. Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson were remarkably identical, tall and thin and Nordic. Mrs. Parkinson, whose golden curls were hidden beneath a pointy wizard's hat, reminded him strongly of someone he didn't like -- he couldn't think of who it was. He was afraid of them both, though there was no reason to be. He had the horrible feeling that he hadn't been expected here.  
  
"So _you're_ Draco!" Mrs. Parkinson chirped, extending her left hand for him to shake. Draco did so clumsily. "Your father's told us so much about you!"  
  
"We found your hand, Draco," Mr. Parkinson said with forced politeness once pleasantries had been exchanged. He gestured at the coffee table, where his soft white hand lay, twitching and clenching, curling and uncurling. It flipped the bird at Mrs. Parkinson when she tried to pick it up and give it to the blond -- but she managed to hand him his wand.  
  
"That's all right, I can do it," he said to Mrs. Parkinson, who looked quite offended. After putting it back into position and whispering a spell to seal it in place, he could barely conceal his happiness at having feeling beyond his wrist again. It felt so good to have a wand hand! How could he have ever taken it for advantage before?  
  
"I splinched myself trying to Apparate," he explained, taking a seat in a wing chair when Mr. Parkinson offered. "Some mudblood tried to assassinate me when I left, but I taught him a thing or two. What do you want?" The Norwegian was still there.  
  
"How awful for you!" Draco knew he might have gotten a lot more sympathy out of Mrs. Parkinson if her husband hadn't abruptly stood, pointing his wand at the Scandinavian. The other man, for his part, merely blinked slowly.  
  
"I thought I told you not to come looking for us," Mr. Parkinson said in a voice deadly quiet, "ever again."  
  
Draco took his eyes from the exchange for a moment...and in the next, they opened wide. Where only a second before there had stood a grimy beggar, now there was a woman, wearing the robes of the DA, running her fingers through vivid purple hair. "I'm just doing my job, Harald," she said. "Dumbledore wants you. He wants you very badly."  
  
"He'll have to kill me first, Tonks!" Mr. Parkinson spoke with such force that sparks issued from the tip of his wand. Mrs. Parkinson, apparently easily frightened, screamed and brought her hands to her mouth.  
  
"You might get that wish." The violet-haired woman nodded solemnly before withdrawing her own wand. "I played with you before, but I'm through dicking around. By the way, your friend's directions were very helpful. Draco, I have to thank you."  
  
The Parkinson's redirected their lamplike, betrayed gazes at him. At him!  
  
"That wasn't what I was supposed to say? Oh...oops." Tonks grinned, revealing her incredibly white, strong teeth. 


	3. Death of Percival the Proud Pureblood

**Disclaimers:** I don't own anything. No, not even the full jar of change you're free to steal from me at any time. I'm sorry.  
  
My beta told me that maybe I should use the third chapter to explain why things are the way they are instead of what I've done. So, that's what I did. I hope this clears up any confusion any of you may have...this thing is SO elaborate! :P  
**  
Thank Yous:** Gabo0, Hufflepuff Pride. Your support is appreciated! :)  
  
* * *  
  
Harry had never considered Hagrid to be a particularly quiet man, but he learned just how quiet he could be on their way back to the Gryffindor common room; he imagined he could barely hear the stamp of his feet, the heavy rasp of his breathing, a fancy that only compounded his guilt. "You think I did the wrong thing, just like everyone else up there?" he ventured quietly as they passed the elaborate tapestry of Percival the Proud Pureblood being tortured by his mudblooded interrogators hanging on the fifth floor.  
  
"Of course not, Harry!" Hagrid reassured him, but Harry felt the half-giant's response had come too quickly to be sincere, and he looked over at the tapestry, wishing his professor didn't feel the need to hide the truth from him. "Besides, you're -- you're being given a second chance!"  
  
The slow torture of Percival was incredibly realistic; red thread gleamed like fresh blood on the innards the mudbloods slowly extracted from the blood traitor's body. Harry watched the sight, mesmerized as the pureblood lay bleeding and dying, turning away only when the torturers did something unspeakable to his organs. "You don't even think I was wrong a little, then?" he asked, his green gaze level with Hagrid's chest.  
  
Hagrid sighed, obviously not wanting to tarry in the hallway with Harry, but the expression on his face was serious rather than impatient. "I shouldn't even be telling you this," he hedged. "The headmistress wants you back in Gryffindor Tower -- and she'd probably sack me if she knew I'd told you anything." He was looking at the tapestry rather than Harry as he said, "I was there, Harry. Watching, I mean."  
  
"Watching? The torture?" Harry looked over his shoulder in time to see the bad death of Percival the Proud Pureblood begin anew, but that was all he saw: the pureblood and his interrogators, no observers...and definitely no half-giants. He was ready to dismiss Hagrid's claim when he looked at the robes the mudbloods wore, and realized with a horrified jolt that Percival's death couldn't have come much more than fifty years ago. "Shouldn't you be in the tapestry, Hagrid?"  
  
Hagrid made a sort of dismissive gesture with a hand the size of a ham. "Nah, it was a class. Headmaster Dumbledore just wanted a tapestry that showed that purebloods have blood as red as everyone else's. It was the very first time a pureblood had been formally executed...in Hogwarts, at least."  
  
"What sort of class was this?" Harry had certainly never attended anything of the like. He wondered how it had been with Hagrid as one of Percival's interrogators made a delicate surgeon's cut with his wand that slit the pureblood open from navel to throat.  
  
"N.E.W.T. level Offense Against the Dark Arts -- but don't worry, they don't teach the class like that anymore." Hagrid patted Harry's closest shoulder so firmly he nearly forced him to sit down. "Dumbledore was still gathering recruits for the army that helped him storm the Ministry of Magic and overthrow Minister Grindelwald, and he felt examples were necessary -- but Binns told you all that in History of Magic, didn't he?"  
  
"Yeah," Harry muttered, tearing his eyes from the tapestry. "Hagrid, what classroom did you do this in?" He knew he'd have spied a large blood stain on the floor of the Offense Against the Dark Arts classroom if there'd been one there, and if not, Professor Quirrell would certainly have fainted at its presence. He was faintly amused at that, knowing how Ron would love that jab at the stuttering professor they'd had for five years.  
  
"Not all the staff agreed with Dumbledore about what should be done about Grindelwald and his pet purebloods, not back then," Hagrid said after a pause, apparently carefully choosing his words. "He had to be careful about who he trusted with stuff...and where he let them teach. The Defense -- that's what they called it -- Against the Dark Arts teacher back in those days was a Parselmouth. He agreed to help out in any way he could. And, well, Dumbledore knew a fair amount about the school, so when he formed his first N.E.W.T. level class for offense, not defense -- and we all knew what we were enlisting in, Harry -- he requested that the professor use a certain location as a meeting place.  
  
"Back when the school was formed, Harry, there were four founders instead of three, and one of them was Salazar Slytherin -- Binns might've mentioned him once or twice--"  
  
"There was a question about him on the O.W.L.," Harry said eagerly. His suddenly painful excitement drowned away his dismal certainty that he had gotten the question about Salazar Slytherin wrong. "I wrote that exam this morning."  
  
"Right," said Hagrid, looking disconcerted at Harry's sudden interest but pleased. "Well, the four founders decided they wanted to teach students according to their own likes, like the Sorting Hat says every year, so they divided into four Houses. Now Slytherin, he said publicly that he wanted to teach mudbloods, which surprised everyone, as he'd always spoken against them before. None of the other founders knew he had built a special chamber under the school that only he could get into, since he was the only wizard in those days who could speak Parseltongue. The other three only found out when Slytherin's first years started turning up dead that he'd built the chamber as a torture chamber for...for mudbloods. And, well, you know the rest. Gryffindor chucked him out after that, and Dumbledore eventually abolished his House."  
  
"You used that torture chamber!" exclaimed Harry, aghast.  
  
"Well, yeah," Hagrid said, looking not at all abashed. "There was no other place as secure...not even the Room of Requirement. We didn't want to, but we had to. It was nearing the days where you were either for the Ministry or for Dumbledore, so we found a wizard for our first lesson easy. His name was Percival."  
  
Harry looked as the Percival in the tapestry stretched open his mouth in a silent scream, writhed in what must have been exquisite agony, and then moved no more. "What did he do?"  
  
"Our professor claimed he tried to divorce his mudblood wife because she was, well, a mudblood. And she was pregnant."  
  
This was so similar to Harry's own story that he almost laughed, but the look in Hagrid's eyes and the look in Percival's eyes was enough to sober him quickly. "Was that the real reason?"  
  
"It seemed like it at the time -- I was just taking notes while three of Dumbledore's oldest soldiers went to work on him, while the professor discussed proper wand position and technique and...and all that. You're supposed to demonstrate the ability to interrogate and torture at N.E.W.T. level, you know, and by the time we were done with him...there wasn't much left. Percival's family sent an owl to the headmaster requesting his body for burial, but Dumbledore sent some hired wands after them and they didn't send anything else.  
  
"It came out over Christmas that Percival requested a divorce from his wife because she'd had an -- er--"  
  
It took Harry a few moments to realize what Hagrid was trying to keep from saying, and then he smiled. "You can say 'affair' if you need to, Hagrid. I've heard the word before."  
  
"Oh -- er, all right, Harry. Well, he requested a divorce because his wife had been having an affair and was pregnant with the other man's child. He had reason to believe this because he'd spent the last year in Romania slaying vampires. It didn't really matter if he was innocent or not by that point, since Dumbledore's Army was already slaughtering purebloods too stupid to run and too corrupt to live in their beds."  
  
_How many others have died because of lies, I wonder?_ the Malfoy boy's voice drawled mockingly in his mind. Harry suppressed the voice quickly and angrily. "What're you trying to get at, Hagrid?"  
  
Hagrid shook his head and took Harry by the shoulders, so hard that for one frightened moment he thought his arm bones might crumble to dust. Then his Head of House stooped so their gazes were almost level. His black eyes were not glittering. "If the boy was another Percival, off slaying vampires...then yeah, you did the right thing. Yeah, I don't think you were wrong at all."  
  
"I hope you're not going around saying that to people, though," said Harry, looking pleased despite his best efforts not to. "You might really get sacked. I really liked that Care of Magical Creatures O.W.L., by the way."  
  
The sudden change in subject seemed to make Hagrid uneasy. "What? Oh, yeah, it was pretty easy, wasn't it? I heard you might've gotten full marks...one judge was very impressed by your knowledge of Blast-Ended Skrewts."  
  
His mind did not seem to be on what he was saying at all, but Harry managed to ignore it; he even smiled faintly, remembering the brief and explosive encounter his class had with the creatures late in his fourth year. "Bet it wasn't Snape. Listen, we should probably go up to Gryffindor Tower now."  
  
"Yeah," Hagrid said. He straightened quickly and led the way up to the seventh floor. Harry meant to ask him what had kept him from actually following through with his N.E.W.T. level class, joining the army, and capturing glory along with the rest of Dumbledore's wizard army in the coup of the Ministry of Magic. Had he found the course too hard? Did he think it would be too difficult to rise in rank in the army as a half-giant, even in Dumbledore-controlled England? Or had Percival the Proud and Eviscerated Pureblood come to visit him, late at night? Harry thought about these things, and the more he thought the more frustrated he got...and then he was before the Fat Lady all alone, and it was too late to ask any questions.  
  
"Death's cup," Harry mumbled under his breath to the lady in pink. As he climbed through the portrait hole, he was assaulted by a roar of sound. The squashy couches and armchairs of the common room were hidden underneath scarlet and gold streamers, a large banner (most likely done by Dean Thomas) hung from the ceiling, celebrating the end of the O.W.L.s for the fifth years, and Fred and George -- resplendent in the white robes of Dumbledore's Army that they weren't allowed to wear until they finished their N.E.W.T.s -- stood on a nearby table, singing a loud version of the school song.  
  
Seeing everyone in the upper years looking so happy and relieved at having passed something he was not yet done with did wonders in evaporating whatever remained of Harry's good mood. Someone he didn't see shoved an open bottle of butterbeer into his hand. He quickly discarded it and went in search of Ron and Hermione.  
  
He found them sitting on a couch by the fire, talking to Ron's younger sister, Ginny, in urgent hushed voices. As he approached, he noticed -- to his confusion -- that Hermione was looking pale and very scared, Ron incensed, and Ginny anxious. They stopped talking abruptly when he stopped before them.  
  
"Where've you been, Harry?" the youngest Weasley said first, meeting his gaze boldly. There'd been a time when she could not so much as speak to him without blushing -- a time when she'd been overwhelmed by his 'dark good looks,' by the fact that he'd had a blood traitor for a father, that he had a curse of a scar marring the skin of his forehead. He'd been very surprised to meet her on the train this year to find she'd gotten over it.  
  
"He was off -- on his Offense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.!" Hermione rose to her feet, her Prefect's badge gleaming in the firelight, her color returning as she looked at Harry expectantly. "Oh, Harry -- how was it? Did you let him die with honor?"  
  
"Leave him alone, Hermione, he's probably tired," Ron said lazily, sounding far less angry than he'd looked when Harry first saw him, looking down at his own Prefect's badge for what appeared to be the fifteenth time that night. The unconcerned expression disappeared from his face when he saw the expression on Harry's. "Mate...?"  
  
"Er..." Harry looked down at his shoes, unsure of what to say. Hagrid said he'd done the right thing -- even though he, Harry, wasn't sure whether or not the blood traitor was as innocent as he had claimed. But really, he'd just practically failed the easiest practical exam he was likely to have as a Hogwarts student -- despite the headmistress' decision, he knew he was now guaranteed nothing above an A when he retook it. And what if he couldn't kill who he was assigned, like before? How could he admit to his friends he had been weak enough to be swayed by the words of a boy sired of the purest blood? The answer was simple, he decided glumly: he couldn't. "I guess it went all right," he said at last, now looking at the ceiling, from which confetti fell. "I might've scraped by with an A."  
  
"An A?" Ron echoed slowly. "You're the best in our year at Offense Against--" He stopped, looking guiltily at Hermione as she shot a withering glance at him.  
  
Harry really wasn't expecting her to look at him in the same way, but she did, her cheeks high with color. "You're lying!" she said incredulously as the rest of the Gryffindors reveled all around them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ginny holding a butterbeer and slowly shaking her head at him.  
  
"D'you really think so?" he asked Hermione quietly. Her flush immediately became more pronounced.  
  
"Well -- it's just that --" Hermione looked at the floor, then sat back down next to Ron, almost as if she sensed danger in Harry's intense green stare. She kept looking up at him as she continued, "Ron's right you know, you're the best, you got the Killing Curse to work in Curses and in Offense Against the Dark Arts before any of us -- it was a great first try, even though you did make Quirrell scream--"  
  
"Like a girl," Ron pointed out helpfully, plainly not believing a word Hermione said and sending Harry a sly glance.  
  
"--and I simply refuse to believe you got an A on the practical part of your favorite subject...was he tough to kill?" She paused, taking a breath and looking at him thoughtfully.  
  
"Yeah," Harry said. He felt even more guilty making up more things to add credence to his first lie, but there was no getting around it, not now, not with the shame and regret still so fresh in his mind. "I had to cast the Killing Curse three times, he kept moving. I know you're going to say I should have put the Body Bind Curse on him, but I kind of lost my head." Harry gave her a good hard look, and knowing she'd remember, said, "That tends to happen to people, when they're under pressure."  
  
"I never meant to imply you weren't under pressure, Harry!" Hermione exclaimed desperately. The two Weasleys must have decided they didn't want to interrupt this; Ron was looking worried and was keeping his mouth shut, and Ginny was looking bored. "I remember third year as clearly as you do. No one's thinking that you were supposed to be completely under control when you found the old Transfiguration teacher, Professor Lupin, in the Shrieking Shack meeting with the blood traitor Sirius Black. Everyone's grateful you turned him in to Dumbledore's Army. I would have been the same way if I had the chance to turn in someone who'd been helping a fugitive trying to kill me and my mum."  
  
"I only wish I knew the words back then," Harry whispered thickly. "I only wish I knew the Killing Curse back then so I could've killed them both." For a moment the raucous sounds of the Gryffindors celebrating, the shadows of the flickering flames in the fireplace, and even his friends' concerned faces faded away to nothingness. He saw instead the velvety, twilight gloom of the Shrieking Shack from underneath his dead father's Invisibility Cloak, the forms of tall, handsome Sirius Black and less attractive Remus Lupin hidden in a corner. He heard instead the low, anxious voices of the two men, one of whom he'd been hoodwinked into trusting, talking of him and his father. He could still recall his painful anger and sense of betrayal, as vivid now as it had been then, a thousand years ago.  
  
Ron and Hermione, who had killed grown wizards, looked disturbed at Harry's words, and Ginny looked only confused. He knew it was asking too much to hope they'd understand. How could they understand? None of them had ever known what it was like living with the knowledge that their father's best friend -- a member of Dumbledore's Army -- had been ordered to kill that friend, and then had made the mistake of trying to kill the rest of his family, too, only to have the spell absorbed by their sluggish, muddy blood. And then, later, to learn that the soldier who'd made that mistake had somehow kept out of Azkaban, spending the years on the run, and all the while concocting a plan with his shabby friend (who must have disappeared to meet him once a month) to kill them, eradicate the error, for reasons they could not fathom, nor want to fathom.  
  
No. No one could understand that. He wasn't even sure _he_ understood how someone seemingly so loyal to his pureblood heritage and to the others who embraced it could have done what Sirius Black did.  
  
"Well, at least Lupin was kissed..." Ginny offered timidly, seeming to cringe at the mere mention of Azkaban's dementors. Hermione and Ron, however, were both looking guilty, as if they were hiding something. Harry was good at identifying that expression.  
  
"What is it?" he demanded, ignoring what he judged as Ginny's poor attempt to identify with him.  
  
His two best friends glanced at each other, and something seemed to pass between them. It was Ron who spoke. "Harry...the _Evening Prophet_ came after you left to take your O.W.L. -- or maybe when they took you away to tell you about that bloke you were supposed to kill...oh, yeah, sorry, Hermione. Black's in Azkaban."  
  
Harry was sure his mouth dropped open. It was entirely possible, but he felt disconnected from his body again, as he had up in the headmistress' office, this time out of explosive, vicious happiness. This was an announcement that he'd been waiting for, ever since he'd learned upon returning to Hogwarts for his third year that Black was after him. And despite the grin he now felt greasing his lips, a small part of him worried it was wrong to revel in another's misery like this. _But if this is so wrong_, he thought, _why does it feel so good?_  
  
"Are they going to kiss him too?" he asked breathlessly. Ron's eyes grew wide and Hermione looked very uncomfortable, but Harry saw none of this. This must have been what they'd been talking about when he'd come in the common room, but why hadn't they told him immediately?  
  
"Mate, I think you've got the wrong idea--" Ron began.  
  
"Who caught him? Was it anyone we know? Can I see the article?" Harry could not recall a time when he'd asked so many questions, but his enthusiasm was dampened a bit by the looks on all three faces. "What is it? This is Sirius Black you're talking about, isn't it? You look like someone...someone's died."  
  
"Harry...Sirius Black's _taken_ Azkaban," Hermione said softly. Ginny chose this moment to excuse herself, doubtless going off in search of more cheerful company.  
  
Harry's animal triumph disappeared in an instant -- but maybe that was because it had never been triumph, or even happiness, at all. But it didn't matter what he'd been feeling before, because now he was angry -- angry at the unfairness of the situation, angry at Ron for not being clear enough, angry at Ginny for leaving, angry at tall handsome stupid Sirius Black who wouldn't allow himself to be kissed. He glared down at his two friends, and they seemed to shrink away from him. "_What!_"  
  
His voice was very loud. The deafening sound of celebration in the common room dimmed somewhat as revelers near the trio stopped talking and turned to look at the brewing argument curiously.  
  
"You heard me, Harry! Black took Azkaban this afternoon, started freeing prisoners and dementors, and named himself Head Warden. You knew this was going on...he's been trying to overtake it for days, it's been in the papers, remember?" Hermione's voice started out vehement, defensive, but by the time she took in his expression her voice was a whisper. Part of Harry was relieved, the rest of him wanted her to keep yelling at him. He needed someone to yell in him, to convince him he'd been stupid to hopefully believe Black would be captured and kissed. "Sit down with us..."  
  
"You should've told me as soon as I got back," Harry said woodenly, only pretending to harbor resentment against them as he sat on the arm of the couch. By this time, the few who'd heard his angry voice over the din grew bored and returned to swigging butterbeers.  
  
"What good would that have done?" Hermione challenged. "D'you think you can go off and fight him all by yourself? You're not going to try, are you? We wanted to tell you tomorrow, when you were rested -- but you asked..."  
  
"Glad to see you trust me not to fly off the handle!" Harry raged.  
  
"That wasn't it at all!" Hermione said, obviously not liking the turn this conversation was taking. Ron stopped her from saying anything more.  
  
"Believe me, mate, I want to see him captured and kissed as badly as you do...but we're not going to be the ones to do it. It's going to be people who've been members of Dumbledore's Army for a while who're going to get that honor. There's not even any use thinking about it." Ron stood. "You tired? We should go up to the dorm."  
  
Had Hermione said the same thing, Harry might've gotten angry again, but Ron's rational thoughts helped calm him. There were bigger things to think about than what Sirius Black had seized -- such as the squeamishness that had stopped him from killing some pureblood. Black would become a factor again when the opportunity arose to kill him, surely. He stood. "Okay."  
  
Hermione sprang to her feet, eagerly pulling a long roll of parchment from her robes. "I'm coming with you," she told them matter-of-factly. "We ought to go over the History of Magic O.W.L. from yesterday together. There are some questions I'm still not clear over..."  
  
"Yeah, right," Ron muttered as he passed Harry. "Do we look like Binns to her? Honestly..."  
  
Harry flexed his mouth. He was grateful that his friends were attempting to change the subject -- if he had to think about Sirius Black's afternoon victory and his own miserable failure before going to sleep he might go insane -- but annoyed with it as well. Did they always think they knew what was best for him?  
  
It was easy for them to lose themselves in the tight-packed crowd, but not as easy to push their way past the crush of gold and scarlet up the stairs to the sixth year boys' dorms. Hermione led the way up the spiraling stairs and that annoyed Harry, too -- why were girls allowed in the boys' dorms, anyway?  
  
The dorms were dark and cool. Harry and Ron spread themselves out on Harry's four-poster, and Hermione sat on the floor by the side of the bed, leaning against it. Harry spied Hermione carefully unrolling the parchment before he closed his eyes. Images of the blond Malfoy boy danced behind his lids.  
  
"What color robes do members of Dumbledore's Army wear and why?" Hermione asked. Neither Ron nor Harry realized she expected them to answer until she loudly cleared her throat.  
  
"Gee, Hermione -- couldn't answer that one," Ron said. "It wasn't like I saw Fred and George wearing their robes or anything..." Harry snickered without realizing it.  
  
Hermione sniffed. "Bet you don't know why," she said loftily. "Dumbledore meant them to represent purity -- as the soldiers _do_ purify wizarding kind of harmful purebloods. That's why they're white."  
  
"Give us a harder one," Harry said. "Like the fifteenth one -- I know I missed that."  
  
"What were the political and social changes brought on by Minister Dumbledore's overthrow of Minister Grindelwald in 1945?" Hermione said. "Honestly, Harry...if you and Ron took notes in History of Magic, you wouldn't miss easy questions like that!"  
  
"Yeah, Harry," said Ron, sounding reproachful. "Even Dobby would know the answer to that one!"  
  
Harry snickered again. Dobby was a house-elf that the three of them had found in Hogsmeade in third year, wandering aimlessly about as he clutched a black sock. They did not know who his masters had been, and Dobby had never mentioned them, for he was proud of his independence -- but eager to serve. They weren't sure what to do with him until Hermione, a fervent supporter of house-elf rights, suggested sending him to Harry's mother. Now, in Godric's Hollow, Dobby earned a Knut a week fixing meals and scrubbing floors. Dobby certainly wasn't the brightest house-elf any of them had ever met.  
  
Hermione ignored all mention of poor Dobby. "The Ministry came under Dumbledore's control, of course...a new subdepartment was set up to classify purebloods as either belligerent or benevolent...the Army started to punish the purebloods who had oppressed those of lesser blood for centuries...wizarding governments in eastern Europe failed to recognize our new government until Dumbledore sent down hired wands...Hogwarts was changed into an institution designed to train new soldiers for the Army...and wizards and witches of lesser blood gained more respect."  
  
Harry opened his eyes, but didn't see Ron's expression change with the last social change Hermione listed. He supposed that the fact that purebloods were now second-class citizens didn't bother Ron when it was phrased that way; that way, all three of them could pretend their government was a democracy.  
  
"Definitely got that one wrong," Ron groaned good-naturedly after a tense pause. "Didn't list any of that...give us another one, Hermione."  
  
"All right, how about this one -- how did Minister Dumbledore overthrow Minister Grindelwald's pureblood regime in 1945?"  
  
"You tell us," both Ron and Harry said at once.  
  
"D'you two want to fail?" Hermione asked, sounding frustrated. "All right...Dumbledore supported the appointment of several hundred of his supporters to strategic jobs in the Ministry, including Minister Grindelwald's personal receptionist. His supporters laid low until the class of '45 graduated from Hogwarts...then, Dumbledore stormed the Ministry with the majority of these graduates, using his version of the Killing Curse that killed only purebloods. Dumbledore's plants inside the Ministry started the attack inside. Minister Grindelwald's receptionist Petrified the man until Dumbledore arrived to kill him and claim his title."  
  
Harry yawned. He was unable to dredge up much sympathy for Minister Grindelwald and his pet purebloods -- not when they would have done all they could to prevent his birth, including prohibiting his parents from marrying (as they were not of the same blood), and if he had been born, done all they could to ensure he didn't live to see Hogwarts by sending hired wands after him. Grindelwald's bizarre, reactionary legislation -- almost the polar opposite of legislation passed by today's tolerant, progressive society -- had to be memorized by every Hogwarts student, and Harry didn't forget. He only regretted he'd never seen a tapestry of Dumbledore's triumphant storming of the Ministry, that it remained dry history to him.  
  
"Why did Minister Dumbledore decide there needed to be regime change?" Hermione continued, oblivious to the fact that Harry was trying to ignore her. Her voice was lulling him to sleep.  
  
To Harry's surprise, Ron answered this. "He was following the example of America, which made their purebloods and mudbloods equal under the law during their progressive era...and there was a failure to compromise between his followers and Grindelwald...and he was trying to boost morale during that one Muggle war."  
  
"You know all that!" Hermione exclaimed, surprised.  
  
"I know what I read off Hannah Abbott's parchment," Ron deadpanned while Harry laughed. "Hey, Hermione -- didn't Dumbledore install a puppet government in Norway or Sweden or somewhere up there where Durmstrang is?"  
  
Hermione's voice cooled a bit. "He never installed any puppet government anywhere, Ron. He supported a radical candidate for Norwegian Minister of Magic in the 1940s, and yes, that man won and turned Durmstrang into an institute to train students to kill purebloods -- and some of Durmstrang's graduates helped Dumbledore storm the Ministry, but it was a complete coincidence. But the Norwegian Minister only served one turn, and the men who were elected after him started to denounce England -- saying rubbish about a Holocaust going on here. Some people say that in America, too."  
  
"Gits," Ron said angrily. "If there were a pureblood Holocaust going on, I'm sure I would've been the first to hear about it."  
  
"That doesn't stop Norway from giving asylum to pureblooded criminals," Hermione said unhappily. "Anyhow -- who was Percival the Proud Pureblood and what was his crime?"  
  
Harry's stomach lurched uncomfortably. He knew the answer to this one, and he hadn't even peeked at Hannah Abbot's paper. He opened his mouth to answer her, but a sudden swell of sound from downstairs drowned out the feeble croak that he made.  
  
Ron sat up and Hermione looked at the closed dorm door curiously. "What the--?" the redhead muttered.  
  
The answer to his query burst through the door a moment later, and for the rest of the night, Harry did not think of tall handsome Sirius Black or blond shrewd Malfoy again. Dobby from Godric's Hollow, wearing something that vaguely resembled a shirt, catapulted himself onto Harry's bed and onto his lap; Hermione ducked and covered the top of her bushy head. Harry was, understandably, shocked; what other Hogwarts student had received a visit from their house-elf before?  
  
Dobby looked in bad shape. He must have traveled all day and night to reach Hogwarts, for the fabric he wore was torn and stained, and he kept curling and uncurling his long fingers, and his already wide eyes were wider than ever. There were many questions Harry wanted to ask the creature -- _Why are you here?_ and _What's wrong?_ and _What are you doing?_ flashed through his mind -- but he realized Dobby was saying something, frantically, over and over, so he shut his mouth.  
  
"Harry Potter, sir! Harry Potter!"  
  
"Dobby--"  
  
"No!" Dobby yelped, his eyes growing wider, unaware of gaping Ron and Hermione, his audience. "Harry Potter must come to Godric's Hollow! Something terrible has happened there!"


End file.
